


Circumspect (heartache)

by philosoverted



Category: Peaky Blinders
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Post-1x06, Supportive family feels, Vignette, otp: I'll break your heart, otp: oh and there's a woman, shortfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosoverted/pseuds/philosoverted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Polly’s always been soft for her brother’s second-oldest boy, who deals like the devil and hurts like a child. Post-1x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circumspect (heartache)

They stayed late over the books one evening, fire burning low. Just Thomas and herself – both insomniacs with no tolerance for idle thoughts. Better to work than to lie in the dark and hurt.

“Thinking of her again?“ 

Polly spoke with some hesitation, words hanging near her pursed lips like cigarette smoke, but like smoke they dispersed, irretrievable, to the corners of the dark room, only to be stopped from going further by thin boards and yellowing wallpaper.

Thomas exhaled, sinking into the chair until the base of his skull rested on the back of it. "She would’ve liked you, Poll,” he said at last. "If things had been different."

Polly’s eyes darted to his face and then back to neutral ground, the fire through the grate. “I liked her.”

She looked back in time to see Thomas’s lips curl, a pale slip of a smile that didn’t bring any heat to his cheeks, but Polly didn’t miss the way the warmth made it into his eyes. “You liked her. What reason might you have had for that?”

She winced internally at the grudging affection that was still there when he spoke, even though his fingers curled tight around the ends of the armrests. The anger, she’d noted, had frequently come and went over the last few weeks, and bitter words came too, when the boys got to boasting, but… well. He had a stubborn heart.

For a while his jaw had been too tight for evening conversation. He’d loosened it enough for daytime use by drinking alone at night; a few week’s passing and that weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. Polly wasn’t fool enough to think it actually had.

Once burned, twice shy. Polly brushed dry frizzy hair away from her forehead, skin feeling hot and prickly from the fire.

“She put her gun down. Rolled up her sleeves. Said if she was going to fight, she could do it with her fists. Something about how she’d come from a hard childhood. God only knows what the concept of hardship means to girls of her like.”

Thomas blinked, looking at the fire. “Her father was killed by the IRA,” he said, playing with a cigarette wrapper by rolling it between his fingertips. He didn’t say how he knew, and Polly didn’t ask.

“So?” Polly raised a brow. “Hers and every-damned-body else’s down there. A father. A brother. A husband. That’s not a hard life, that’s life.”

“I should have known,” Thomas said, heavily. For a long moment, he stared up at the ceiling, adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed. “The way she held that gun. She’d pulled the trigger before.”

“I’m sure there were other signs,” Polly said drolly, not quite managing to feel guilty when Thomas flicked her an irritated glance. 

She felt her mouth twitch. “Come now, Tom.”

He held her gaze. Finally he gave in, blowing out a breath and rolling his eyes. Giving a groan, he sank further into the chair until all she could see over its high curved back was the smoke curling up above the tousle of his hair whenever he took a drag.

“You’re not angry, then?” Polly asked.

“No,” he said. Smoking had hollowed out the sound, or perhaps that was weariness. “’m not angry. She played her bit. Can’t blame her for that.”

“Almost wish you would,” she said. She couldn’t keep the fondness out. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said from his shelter, face hidden from view, and it was only because she knew this boy that she understood, because the truth of him wasn’t in his steady low voice; it was in his eyes.

“It doesn’t,” she agreed. Standing, Polly brushed the cigarette ashes from the book and from her lap and, letting the heavy book slap closed onto the side table, she crossed to his chair. Polly squeezed his shoulder. “Figures look good.”

“Mhm.” He leaned toward her touch for a quick moment, acknowledging her affection, willing to receive comfort with much more grace through touch than words. He’d always been like that, before the war. And even now. After.

Polly patted his shoulder and walked away, feeling stiff and tired, but a little less heavy in the soul. It was good for him to talk.

“She did most of the books,” he called after her, softly, and Polly paused on the threshold, fingers poised on the door handles. She waited for him to let out that breath he’d been holding for weeks, to let it go, but his worn face was a mask that tried to hide what it showed. “Good night, Poll.”

“Good night, Tommy,” she said, and in tactful silence she drew the doors shut behind her.


End file.
